Great Men
by Linwe Mithrandir
Summary: "He had a heart that could have held the entire empire of the world."
1. Great Men

Great Men

Many of our hearts have been tugged at by that singular, tragic tale of pure terror and pure love. It was too many years ago to count and yet still we are overcome with moments of complete and earnest grief (even if fear is intermingled with it) for that of poor, unhappy Erik and his poor, unhappy life. A life that no one quite knows - perhaps even himself. There were many things he knew that he would have rather not known and many things his worthy lion's heart was undeservingly burdened with. For make no mistake it was the heart of a lion - arguably the greatest this world has never known. It had the capability of becoming the heart of the Emperor of the World, and a revolutionary, ingenious, brilliant mastermind of an Emperor at that. He'd have been brighter than the stars! He would have blinded the Greats: Figchen, Alexander, Ivan - all of them at once with his pure, effervescent radiance. Oh, he'd have made Caesar and Nefertiti and Charlemagne weep with shame at their utter incompetence and foolery. He would have made idiots of the very best of the best in all things - there is no doubt that with his bare hands he would have built the greatest kingdom to ever exist in the whole of time.

What is most pitiful is that he knew it and I daresay there was a point when he would've gladly given it all away - his radiance, his brilliance, his phenomenal talents, his heart, all of it... if only to simply be a man.

Towards the end I am sure that that lion's heart ached for nothing more than at least the very minimum of what it could've borne. It asked not for crusades but for walks on Sunday mornings, not for a queen but for a gentle, soft wife, not for an empire but for a regular apartment with regular doors and regular windows - oh windows, sweet windows that would let light pour in from the sun. It asked for at least to be granted the _sun_. But that sad heart with the makings of a proud and illustrious lord had to content itself with the darkness of a cellar... perhaps it shattered underneath all of its lost, twisted dreams.

In short, he wanted to retire. And not just from his greatness but from everything that he was - I suspect this is partly why he was constantly coming up with different personas such as Erik. Oh. Did you think that his real name? Well, maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. He'd been known by it for a time, this much is true. But he'd been known by many other names - as is wont by great men (they often make a few names for themselves). There's a very good chance he didn't even remember his real name (perhaps it was something quite French and simple like Henri or Hugo or perhaps it was something far more symbolic and weighty like Drogo or Dreux* - but who other than God and the unlucky souls present at his birth really knows) - a smaller but still possible chance was that he was never given a name by his terror-stricken mother.

In any case, it's interesting that the name 'Erik' is notably Scandinavian in origin (as was his object of obsession, Christine Daaé - or as she is now generally known, Christine de Chagny) and it's most often associated with various Swedish and Norwegian rulers. As a result, it's come to commonly mean, "Ruler of the People." Yet when broken down it also means "alone" and "eternal" and "powerful" - all things that well describe our poor phantom. As mentioned before there is no doubt in my mind that Erik knew he was as extraordinary as he was... but that he was also very aware of how mad he was, and how utterly alone he was, and how much his brilliance was wasted five cellars beneath the Opéra Garnier. It makes sense for him to feel connected to this equally magnificent, ambitious, and lonely name (whether or not he had chosen it himself or if it was chosen for him by some odd accident). Power for the price of companionship and normalcy and humanity. There's an account that was made long ago by a Mohammed Ismaël Khan (though for the sake of brevity we shall henceforth simply refer to him as M. Khan) - apparently a man that became as acquainted as anyone can claim to be to the Phantom of the Opera while serving as the chief of police for the Shah of Persia. This account features a discussion between M. Khan and Erik himself on the subject of Erik's great potential. Here it is, translated from the French, word for word for your perusal:

"I and anyone else who had ever met with Erik had to know that he was one of the most powerful men to walk the earth. I recall he once told me something, very long ago - I will not say how long - but long enough. I'd always thought of myself as some sort of guardian to him... he was constantly running about and causing mischief and I was constantly following him around to get him out of it (I could rarely stop him, I was usually left to clean up whatever mess he'd made).

I remember at one point, after some unpleasant business with a few of my own poor officers, I'd berated him which led to him threatening me which led to a tussle (I have no doubt he could've killed me at any chosen moment, I think after the two years we'd known each other he had actually - to his dismay, of course - developed a soft spot for me) which then led to one of the first real conversations I'd ever had with him.

Do not misunderstand me, he enjoyed talking, but he was a clever talker and would never answer a question he didn't really want to. He was so adept with digression that I think it's safe to say he made it into an art form. But I do recall that after we had had a few moments to calm down, I invited him to have a drink with me. This was not an unusual request, every week or so I'd share some of my collection of spirits with him... he was quite fond of these evenings if I remember correctly, though he never took more than one or two glasses - perhaps it was the civil company he was more partial to? Or some mixture of the two? He'd deny that, I'm certain. It was a very quiet evening, and Erik had seemed congenial enough. And for whatever reason, I was feeling very bold and curious and found myself asking as I peered at his awful face (some days he would wear a mask, and other days he would not - I would never grow accustomed to its ugliness, but I was not afraid of it), 'Were you born this way?'

'Whatever do you mean, _daroga_?' He never called me Ismaël – even if I had insisted I don't think he would have. It was such a personal thing… perhaps he needed to remind himself that I was affiliated with the police and therefore could never be trusted and probably should never be considered 'friend.' But when have rules (even his own) ever stopped him from getting something he wanted before?

'Were you born looking...'

'As ugly as death itself?'

'Yes.'

'Yes.'

I had been unbelievably shocked at such a straightforward answer! If I had asked something as simple as 'is the sun in the sky in the middle of the afternoon?' he would've given no less than a riddle bewildering enough to make me want to throw myself off a cliff. I took this answer as encouragement.

'Have you ever wondered why?'

'What a silly thing to ask, _daroga_, sometimes I _wonder_ if anything at all goes on in that head underneath that odd hat of yours.'

'My hat is not odd, it is the very height of fashion."

'It was probably shaved off a sheep's bottom.'

'Probably. You still haven't answered my question.'

For a long while it was quiet again - I suspected it would end that way, it always did. I wasn't offended really... well, perhaps I was a bit miffed at the cheap shot taken at my hat but for his silence at answering my question I did not blame him. It was wrong of me to be so blatant and unprofessional. Such a mind as critical and sharp as mine should have known better than to try to dig into the mystery that was his horrible face. But I was astonished once more when he suddenly spoke up. His voice was very weary and soft (this was actually far more foreboding than it was heartening, for it could've meant that he was at the end of his rope, that he was bored, that he was about to try to manipulate you... it rarely signified that anything good was going to happen).

'They say, _daroga_, that Providence cuts down great men before they can destroy whatever great things they have created. Take Henry V as an example - he almost conquered France! He achieved a miracle at the Battle of Agincourt and after he had it all in his hands** –** when it was negotiated and settled that everything he and his kingdom had ever dreamed of would be his, God struck him (and subsequently the British Empire) down! Ironic, isn't it? Almost amusing enough to laugh.' And here he chuckled in a truly dark and dreadful manner - I steeled myself for anything.

'Are you listening?' Before I could respond he continued, 'What am I saying? Of course you are! The Great and Distinguished _Daroga_ is always _listening_ - though not like Erik, I tell you. Not like how Erik can hear. You should keep that in mind when you listen, _daroga_.'

He was very suspicious and rightly so. I was, in fact, a spy for the Shah... it was my duty to know everything and anything Erik was involved with. I don't think I did a very good job at it. I'm not sure anyone could have done a good job at it, not even Erik himself. Naturally, he was well aware of the fact that I was ordered to keep an eye on him; how he knew I'm not sure... there are plenty of ways his clever mind could have guessed it. He probably just assumed immediately – he was never a very trusting man. Yet we had settled on an unspoken agreement to never speak of my job… much less his own work.

'Hm, the _Great Daroga_ indeed." He snickered, 'Don't be too great, of course, you may find yourself falling - falling - _falling_, quite like the Star of England. This is why, _daroga_.'

'What is?'

'Do not interrupt, it's appallingly rude.'

I remember daring to roll my eyes at that, considering that Erik was a master at interruptions. The stories I could tell you… but those are for another day.

At last, he breathed a heavy sigh, 'I suspect Providence cut me down before I could do anything truly noteworthy at all. I died in my mother's womb. You are well aware that I was once gloriously dubbed The Living Death and what a _worthy_ title it was! I am dead but alive, _daroga_. Who knows what I could have accomplished? It makes you question how wretched the destruction would've been. For if I was the great man I was destined to be, I would be the _greatest_... and so would my fall. Heaven could not have let that happen – but perhaps I was such a magnificent specimen of the mind and heart that Heaven could not bring itself to simply let me die... so I was spared. Or perhaps I am being punished for sins I would've committed while alive – this is some sort of purgatory, an Eternal Death – I shall go on forever; beyond the Edge of Time itself! Never to enter either the gates of Heaven or of Hell. And perhaps that is for the best! For I know I would undoubtedly be sent to the Underworld now – maybe even overthrow Hades and be made King! King of the Dead! Oh, and would I not look the part!' Then he laughed: a mad, broken cackle which seemed to slip into an even more terrorizing sound: heartbroken, uncontrollable wails. I could do nothing but stare, terrified by that ghastly face as it twisted and distorted further, even when he stopped (as if nothing had been said or happened at all) all I could find it within myself was to stare until he stood and left."

* * *

*_Saint Drogo (also known as Drugo, Dreux, or Droun) was a Flemish noble orphaned at birth. At some point in his life Drogo was stricken with an illness that made him physically repulsive. He was often met with ridicule and cruelty and so he built a hut in Sebourg, France and stayed there as a hermit (and shepherd) until the day he died. He is a French saint and although a patron of shepherds, he is primarily a patron for those who are deemed ugly, deformed, ill, or suffering from any sort of disability (he is also, curiously, a patron of coffee)._

**Author's Note: This is something I wrote real quick while half-asleep and suddenly struck with inspiration. It's a bit sad, I don't often write sad things... so I don't know if I'll just leave it here... I personally don't feel like it's finished yet. But this is what I have for now. I'm using mostly Leroux and my own headcanons/ideas for this (e.g. the Daroga's name is Mohammed Ismaël Khan after the individual that he's based on). I'm dabbling in working within the confines of Leroux's world - I should like to try to write a "happily ever after" for Erik, I'm just _currently_ unsure of how to go about doing so. At this point, the author believes that Erik is dead. And perhaps, in many ways, he really is. We'll just have to see where this goes! I make no promises that it'll go anywhere! But I would truly like it to.  
**


	2. What of the Lovers?

What of the Lovers?

I suppose you are wondering precisely what this document is - who is writing it and why it is being written. Other than the fact that I am exploring one of the most fascinating stories and individuals the world has ever known, there is another purpose - one that I shall discuss momentarily. But for now, there's another far more important question at hand, "Whatever happened to the lovers?" What would this beautiful tragedy have been without its other courageous players – what would it have been without the fair and valiant Christine and her heroic, gentle Raoul? Allow me to take these next few moments to explain to you what happened to the childhood sweethearts after the last half a year of angelic ghosts and falling chandeliers and secret engagements and grasshoppers threatening to hop jolly high. I assure you, this is necessary in understanding what shall be written presently - and therewithal, I'm willing to bet that many of you would simply die of curiosity if I did not impart to you the fate of the star-crossed lovers.

The title of Comte was passed down to Raoul, for if you recall, his brother was no longer living due to falling into the deadly clutches of the "Siren" and though I am making use of the quotations because I know that the Siren was no more than another persona of that of poor, unhappy, and _cunning_ Erik – _others_ would make use of such quotations to accuse Raoul himself with the murder of his brother. This is where the lovers' nightmare resumes. Raoul, after being saved from the old Communard dungeons that Erik had so hospitably chained him in, was put on trial for the curious death of his brother. He, after a grueling and further traumatizing process, was not found guilty but found in absentia to be insane. He was coerced into silence in light of being told that the horrors he (and his true love) had been subjected to were all ravings of a madman and realized that there were very few options for him and Christine: stay and be persecuted (and Raoul's family, which were now naught but his dear sisters, would suffer as well under the scrutiny and accusations) or start anew elsewhere. The latter was, understandably, the more desirable for being the lesser evil.

His sisters, Annette and Isabelle respectively, were very fond of their little brother (in fact, they had practically raised him after the ill-fated death of their mother) and although it was understood that Raoul had to relinquish his title and inheritance to keep the name of his family from being further placed in any dishonourable light – they could not bear to let him endure his pain on his own. They mourned for Philippe together and (though it was more difficult for the apprehensive Annette to come to terms with such a monstrous and fantastical idea) believed Raoul and Christine's account of their experience with the Phantom of the Opera to be true.

It's regretful to say that Raoul and Christine (though they were, at last, married and together) did not know any true peace until at least another half a year… but, I promise you, they _did _eventually know peace and would take up a very modest and snug residence somewhere in the countryside of Norway. Not long after Christine kept her promise to Erik, Raoul's sisters would help their brother and sister-in-law flee to Gothenburg, Sweden. From Gothenburg they would travel to Christine's childhood home in Uppsala and then go west until they reached the west coast of Norway. This trip, well – it was a demanding time for the both of them. Raoul did not speak a wit of Swedish or Norwegian (or even the not-uncommonly-spoken Danish) and often had to rely upon Christine to get them through most places (as she _was_ fairly familiar with the natively spoken languages), but Christine (as very capable as she was) still had much to worry over with the state of uncertainty she was being forced to wrestle with. Yet, as difficult as it must have been for the newly-weds, it's very likely that it brought them closer than anything else could have. Raoul had before recognized that his love was one of the strongest and boldest women he'd ever known – she had to be to have faced something as terrible as all that she had. But what he fully came to understand again and again on this journey was that he really could not survive without her, not in any capacity. She was his Northern Star – he would look to her for everything, and she, too, was ever reliant upon him for his sincere love and support.

In the course of three years, they had their first child (a boy, named for his maternal grandfather and deceased uncle) and established a life as secure as it could be with a warm home, fairly stable finances, and good standing within a small but friendly community. Though neither of them would ever forget Erik nor the terrifying things they had braved (they were not - as was claimed by those who knew no better - insane, but there is no doubt that they were at the very least perpetually scarred by what they had gone through), they would be able to move happily forward in the tiny but quite homely town they lived in. Raoul found work as a humble farmer – the job was extremely grueling for one so unused, but with the help of his wife (which he was reluctant to accept over the first few months, but soon learned that any sort of masculine pride was nothing he could afford) he would do well enough to support his family. Christine would continue to use her voice primarily for her students, her family, and her own personal enjoyment. She would never be found doing anything quite as acclaimed as an opera again, but every once awhile she would be seen to star in something obscure and always nearby her home.

I have an acquaintance who had become an enthusiastic admirer of the young soprano when she starred at the Opéra Garnier and was once so lucky as to find a way to attend one of these rare shows. She considered the former diva's voice to be "like listening to one of God's Angels in all of their unearthly and divine grace." She (to her great delight) also had the honour of meeting both Christine, her husband, and their son; she described the affection in Raoul's eye to be the softest she'd ever seen a man hold for his spouse. My acquaintance (who has asked to remain anonymous) was kind enough to write me a letter detailing her brief visit with the young couple. I have (with permission of the _letteress_) opted to insert an excerpt of this letter so that you may have a better idea of the domestic contentment in which the lovers found themselves in at last.

"When I visited their quaint and welcoming home I noted that they lived not so far from the sea, I commented as much to Mme. de Chagny who replied that she and her husband were both very fond of visiting the sea with their young son whenever they had the time. I estimate it must have been less than a half an hour to an hour's walking distance to find yourself walking along the shore. Though their home was nothing out of the ordinary, there was a very unassuming yet beautiful simplicity about the little cottage. The frames of the doors and windows were painted in a blue as bright as Mme. de Chagny's eyes and along the steps that brought you to the front door were patches of a certain sort of flower I was quite delighted to learn is called _reinrose. _There are two windows on either side of the door and only one more on the right side of the building that looks out of the second-story level and sits above a second door. Inside the house it is simply but nicely furnished - not as nice as one as dear as Mme. de Chagny should have, but nice enough that it is still a comely home. Amongst the decorations and most prominent items in the house are a few family photos (including that of M. de Chagny's estranged family), a pianoforte in the left-hand corner of the drawing room and a violin cased on the wall next to it. I asked of Mme. de Chagny if she plays either and she told me that she is adept in the case of the pianoforte and that while the last time she played the violin she would not call herself a poor player she has not played in years - I suspect it has much to do with her violinist father and that doing so would bring back painful memories. Upon the wistful look in her eye, I put a hand on her arm and smiled encouragingly. She was so amiable and gentle, I do not think I have ever met someone so naturally and refreshingly charming in all of my life.

She offered me a seat in their parlour, which was nothing very grand but as the rest of her home was not unbecoming or terrible to look upon. What caught my attention instantly was the clock situated above the fireplace mantle. It was so beautifully designed, I had not seen anything quite like it and no words could do it justice (that is not to say I will not try, certainly). I found myself staring transfixed at it while my hostess courteously fetched me something to drink and eat. It was decorated with all sorts of intricately carved swallows, some were flying and others were eating and some were nesting; in a particular spot on the right side of the clock there was a depiction of a young girl with many curls and in her precious hands she held one of the birds. I began to wonder if the birds were one bird in the procession of a story. When the Mme. de Chagny returned with some nourishment, I inquired after it. Again her eyes were filled with a sort of listless sorrow as when she had spoken of the violin, and she told me that it was something she brought with her from France - it was a gift from a friend. I felt horrible for causing those endearing blue eyes to darken so and yet still I pressed on, simply curious as to whether or not it was telling a story or if it was just a series of birds. My premonition was right, it was indeed telling a tale - one of 'Little Lotte.' Mme. de Chagny smiled, but it was not a happy smile, it was something quite like the disconsolation in her eyes. I changed the subject with haste, turning it to her little boy who was currently taking his afternoon nap. I asked her about motherhood..."

I have omitted a very small section of the letter here as it contains personal information of our _letteress_ that could give away her identity.

"... she explained to me that [being a mother] was truly the greatest gift God had given her yet - that not even her voice, though she profoundly treasured it, could compare to the joy she found in raising her son. I was also told that in appearance he is very much a perfect blend between his mother and father, and it was proven thus when I met him not a half an hour later. His hair was thick with Mme. de Chagny's curls and though his eyes were also blue there was no mistaking that they were his father's own stormy grey. He was a quiet and polite sort of child (about four or five years). He seemed very fond of a miniature wooden horse and man with which he played a game he called "Knights!" I only met with Raoul for a very few minutes before I left. He looked very tired and not just as if he had a lack-of-sleep but it was as if he was at least twenty years older than he actually was."

When my acquaintance met the de Chagneys, Raoul was no more than six and twenty years of age and his wife a mere year younger than he.

"But when he saw his wife, there was a visible change in his worn out features, he seemed utterly and completely... relieved almost, as if her very presence was as rejuvenating as a whole night's sleep (and this, it appeared, he dearly needed). And there I caught a glimpse of the animated and unburdened young man that he once must have been. He gave me a very warm and genteel smile as his wife introduced us and told me that he was glad to speak to someone that was French! He told me he still did not have as good a grasp on the language as his wife (let alone any of the natives) and so to hear his own mother tongue spoken once more by someone other than himself and his wife was a treat. It was shortly after that that we said our goodbyes (and I was very flattered and glad to hear them say that I was welcome whenever I should ever like to visit again). I did glance back once or twice while taking my leave and observed as the couple walked into their home hand-in-hand, they gazed at one another and suddenly my own heart skipped a beat! - for what I saw was one of the truest and most enchanting loves that ever existed between a man and woman."

* * *

**Author's Note: Ah, my dears! I am much obliged to you for the reviews and follows and really any attention at all, hehe. I'm glad to have sparked some interest and to say that I have successfully been able to write a second chapter (and I am brimming with lots of fun ideas)! This was a nice chapter to write and I hope you enjoyed a bit of Raoul-Christine back story (even if it has a considerable lack of Erik - I promise he'll return soon, this story _is _about him), I've always wanted to delve a little into what I think happened with Raoul and Christine after they were released and able to marry and all of that... plus, perhaps, after the last sad chapter, I wanted to write something warm and happy. Our author continues to be unknown - but it seems that they are, in fact, a person with a purpose. And I must say that I'm pretty excited to know more about them!  
**

**_To_ _my lovely reviewers!_ - I cannot thank you enough for your encouragement and opinions, they bring such a wide smile to my face! I'm ecstatic to hear that I definitely seem to be hitting the Leroux-nail on the head (and that I wrote Erik and the Daroga in character as far as I can tell). To answer my anonymous reviewer, the Daroga is usually most often referred to as Nadir Khan due to Susan Kay's novel, _Phantom_ (and truth be told, I often find myself calling him Nadir anyway, too), however, I wanted to try something a little different! Gaston Leroux actually based the Daroga off a real man by the name of Mohammed Ismaël Khan (though he went by Ismaël) - he was a Persian that (like the Persian in the book) lived on the Rue de Rivoli facing the Tuileries and was known for frequenting the Opera House prior to the Opéra Garnier (as it was not built yet), the Salle Le Peletier, and "wearing his signature astrakhan hat." I thought that using**** Ismaël rather Nadir would be 1) fun and 2) a little more "Lerouxian."**


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